Murder in a Scottish Shire

by Traci Hall

  It cracked her up that a bunch of gamers gathered in a dark pub with their laptops to play online D&D and drink beer. The drinking beer part she got, but what happened to pool or darts?

  She got to Cashmere Crush, collected the paper for the kite tail, and counted out the till. Before she knew it, the time was a quarter past seven and her cell phone rang—Brody.

  “Mum—where are ye? Yer food is cold, and Grandpa doesnae know how tae play the fortune cookie game.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes with your supplies. If you have free time, get the rest of your homework done, or you can write out ten times the definition of a lie by omission.”

  “Lame.” He hung up.

  She flicked her gaze to the ceiling of her shop and said a quick prayer to Gran for patience.

  When she reached the house and went inside, Brody was seated at the kitchen table and Grandpa had his arms crossed, glaring at her son. Wallace darted toward her, his black tail wagging.

  The other two didn’t say a word, at risk of breaking their standoff.

  “What is going on?” She looked at her grandfather.

  “Yer son willnae do his homework.”

  She shifted to Brody, who said, “He’s no’ in charge of me.”

  Paislee exhaled and entered the kitchen all the way, dropping the bag of kite supplies next to Brody’s chair.

  “That is true, but your grandfather is an adult and deserves respect.” She faced her grandfather. “Brody is very self-sufficient, and I trust him tae get his work finished.”

  The last thing she needed was to be a referee. She gave Wallace’s ears a scratch and saw a dish of food had been saved for her on the counter. “Is that for me?”

  “It’s cold,” they said in unison.

  Great. She took the clear wrap off of the dish and dug in. Even cold, chicken lo mein was delicious, and when was the last time she’d eaten?

  After she finished half the plate, she set it aside. Her grandfather had retreated with his mug of tea to the stool by the counter and Brody wrote something on a math sheet.

  “Done,” Brody said, sending visual daggers toward Grandpa.

  Grandpa slurped.

  “Wonderful—let’s get started on the kite then. Want tae get the box of scissors and glue?”

  The tall, narrow cupboard under the stairwell held both crafty stuff and miscellaneous collected odds and ends she was going to get around to sorting one day but never did. Lydia joked that most people had a junk drawer, while Paislee had a whole closet.

  Brody ran back with the box, Wallace chasing him in hopes he might drop something fun and tasty.

  “In my day, we didnae let children run in the house,” her grandfather intoned.

  She didn’t pick up the argument but kept her focus on Brody as they laid out the dowels, glue, paper, plastic bag, and twine.

  It was the longest hour of Paislee’s life as Grandpa Angus offered barbed critique on the angle of the diamond shape to the length of the paper tail. Since Paislee had never made a kite before and Grandpa had, she took what bits of advice sounded plausible and ignored the rest.

  “We need tae fly it,” Brody said once it was assembled.

  In the dim kitchen light, it didn’t look half-bad, until you peered closely at the lumps of glue and uneven twine.

  “It has tae dry,” Grandpa instructed.

  “It’s nine o’clock—we cannae fly it right now anyway.” Paislee, in between cutting and supervising and refereeing, had also done a load of wash. The twenty-year-old combo washer dryer machine didn’t always get her clothes dry, so she had a rack set up next to the back window to catch the sun. Oh, for modern appliances one day. A separate dryer would be heaven. For now, she dumped the semi-damp socks into a laundry tub to hang before she went to bed. If she was lucky, they’d be wearable by morning.

  “If it doesnae fly, I’ll fail. Mrs. Martin said it had to fly.”

  “We’ll try after breakfast, Brody. If you’d have told me last week when ye received the assignment, then this wouldnae have happened.”

  “Ye’ve got tae stay on top of these things,” her grandfather advised.

  She and Brody both whirled toward him.

  He smugly drank his tea.

  Hands on her hips she said, “Brody, time for bed. Brush your teeth, and I’ll be up in a minute.” She turned to her grandfather. “You and I need tae have a wee chat.”

  Brody gathered his things, muttering about how unfair it all was. He stuffed his homework in his backpack, then froze when he saw something inside.

  “What?” She imagined a bad grade on a math quiz.

  He brought out a manila envelope with her name addressed on it. “Oops.”

  Paislee reached out her hand. “What’s this?”

  “I dunno. I was supposed tae give it tae you today and I forgot because of the doctor’s appointment.”

  Grandpa Angus left his stool and washed out his teacup, setting it upside down in the dish strainer on the counter.

  She accepted the envelope with trepidation. They couldn’t kick Brody out of Fordythe because Paislee had mouthed off to the headmaster, could they?

  “Thanks.” She cleared her throat. “Scoot. I’ll set the alarm early so that we can try tae fly the kite in the back garden. You better pray for wind, me lad.”

  Brody scuffed past her to the stairs, where he ran up them as soon as he was by her. “Brody!” she warned out of habit, following him to make sure he didn’t bounce off the narrow walls. “Careful now.”

  “Night!” His bedroom door slammed closed. She gritted her teeth. Envelope in hand, she returned to the kitchen to have it out with her grandfather, but the old man had taken the opportunity to duck into Granny’s room.

  She couldn’t get used to calling it his room.

  That made this difficult arrangement too permanent.

  Sinking into her chair at the kitchen table, she opened the envelope.

  Rather than a rebuke on her behavior, Headmaster McCall had sent her a leaflet on government services for the elderly with a handwritten note, in superior cursive that put her chicken scratch to shame, apologizing for the misunderstanding. He expressed his condolences for the loss of her associate.

  He’d signed it “Hamish McCall.” Well now.

  She flipped through the pages and highlighted some of the helpful numbers in yellow marker from the craft box still on the table. Grandpa could make the calls for himself in the morning, instead of coming with her to the shop.

  As she cleaned up the mess and then pinned the socks to the wooden air dryer, all Paislee could think of was how kind an action that had been, to send a sincere apology.

  Had she thought him arrogant?

  She hoped that she’d been wrong about him, just as he had been about her.

  Chapter 15

  The next morning, Paislee was at Fordythe with Brody five minutes early—which would have been ten, except for Wallace stealing the tail of the kite, which had to be retrieved and reattached.

  “Bye, Brody—good luck!” The kite had flown, barely, if Brody ran really, really fast.

  “Thanks, Mum!”

  There was no sign of Headmaster McCall, Hamish, waiting outside in the car queue. The man had apologized, and rightly so, with his well-meaning gesture of assistance.

  Paislee had left Grandpa at home with a breakfast of toast and eggs and instructions to call some of the numbers in the leaflet to see if he was entitled to more financial support.

  He’d taken offense, but she’d been firm. He was welcome to stay until they found Craigh, which she promised to help him with more on Sunday, but until then it wouldn’t hurt to see if there were some perks for making it past seventy.

  She trudged into Cashmere Crush completely knackered, but she had to wake up. Tonight was her Knit and Sip, and she’d gotten a custom order in online overnight—paid in full for a hundred pounds—to be delivered for the husband’s birthday in two weeks, which meant she had no time to do
anything but knit a crew-necked fisherman’s sweater. The customer lived in London and had admired the sweater of a friend, who had gotten it from Paislee and Cashmere Crush while on vacation in Nairn.

  The color requested was Oxford Blue, and she chose one of Jerry McFadden’s dyes to work with—the soft yarn always kept the color. Setting up at the counter, she turned the radio on low for background music and let her mind wander.

  Grandpa had offered to stay home with Brody tonight. Her son complained about being in the back area on Thursday nights, but he had his headphones in to watch movies or play videos on his tablet, same as at home, so she didn’t pay his grousing too much attention.

  This might give the two Shaw men a chance to mend fences, so she’d agreed.

  She started the rib-knit pattern and hummed along with the music—then stopped with a pang of guilt. The feeling that Isla had been murdered hadn’t left her all night. But how? And who? How had Gerald not known his neighbor was dead when his dog was inside Isla’s apartment? And probably him, too? She and Grandpa had seen the pup run out. Did Detective Inspector Zeffer even believe her? And what had Gerald told him?

  She slipped a stitch as she recalled Isla’s dead stare into nothing and bit back a cry. She’d tried to make Isla’s life easier—but had Flora been right? Had Isla taken the tiniest bit of advantage?

  It didn’t matter now. Paislee would see that Isla was not forgotten. If her mother couldn’t be found, Paislee would cover the costs of a burial. Somehow she’d find a way. Maybe Father Dixon could help and ask the parishioners to chip in for a simple service? Local folks cared about one another.

  Her mobile phone rang, and she thanked all the heavens for the interruption, as her knitting wasn’t flowing with its usual ease. She tore out the stitches and put the mess aside.

  “Lydia! Good morning. Do you have wonderful news for me?” An affordable location, or perhaps an answer for her grandfather—either would be welcome.

  “I dinnae ken how wonderful, but if you’re willing to stretch yer wings . . .”

  That didn’t sound so good. “You mean, my budget?”

  “Don’t be a stickler—a place by the harbor just popped up on my site as available, starting May first. It’s an up-and-coming area, and you would be smart tae get in there before any of the others on your row find out aboot it.”

  Paislee exhaled loudly, took a look around the empty shop, and let a curse word fly.

  Lydia laughed.

  “Did you say by the harbor?” That was where Isla had lived.

  “Yes.”

  She pulled up the address and gave it to Lydia. “Can you see what flats at Harborside are going for?”

  Lydia did some typing and whistled. “These are dear. Are ye thinking of leaving Granny’s house altogether? I can find ye something much better suited for you and Brody.”

  “No, no. Isla lived there.”

  “Dead Isla, in need of a job?”

  Paislee glowered at the phone. “Aye. And just wait until I catch you up with everything that’s gone on.”

  “Since day before yesterday?”

  “A lot, Lydia, I am not kidding.”

  “I’ll be there in ten.”

  “I cannae close the shop.”

  “Just for an hour? Yes, ye can. You’ve done it before.”

  True, but it seemed irresponsible when there was so much to do. She glanced at the blue yarn and her knitting needles, all tangled. There would be no sorting this mess until she had a few answers. “Fine. But I cannae be long—and I want tae drive by Isla’s.”

  “What for?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way. You can help me find a good reason tae talk tae her next-door neighbor.”

  Paislee ended the call and taped a sign on the door reading that she would be back by eleven. She was waiting on the sidewalk when Lydia drove up in her shiny red Mercedes.

  “Spill,” Lydia said by way of greeting when Paislee climbed in. “Is the neighbor hot? He’s certainly got money.”

  “Yes, actually. You are the perfect weapon.”

  Lydia flashed her dynamite smile. “Intriguing.”

  The interior of the car smelled like expensive leather, even better than James’s leather shop next door. Though the business owners didn’t talk every day, there was still a sense of belonging and to move away would be hard.

  “Isla’s is only five minutes from the building I want tae show you.” Lydia slid on her black designer sunglasses. “I can hold it with a ten percent down payment.”

  “Don’t rush me, Lyd. I’ve got more pressing matters.”

  “You have an eviction notice giving you thirty days—what could be more pressing than that?” Lydia turned onto the main highway toward the harbor.

  “I think Isla was murdered.”

  Lydia gulped, checked for traffic, and then veered to a stop on the side of the road. She whipped off her shades to stare at Paislee as if she’d lost her head. “Excuse me?”

  Paislee held up a hand. “It’s true.”

  “Why in the world would ye think that?”

  Where to start? “Lots of reasons.”

  “Since when?”

  She recalled the yellow fish in Doc Whyte’s aquarium. “Since yesterday, at the doctor’s office.”

  “And why didn’t ye call?” Lydia demanded.

  Paislee went through what she knew about Isla’s return to Nairn, and her death. She ended with, “I’m not supposed tae know about the coroner’s report, which states that Isla committed suicide.” She speared Lydia with determined eyes. “We both know that’s not what happened.”

  “I don’t know that.” Lydia held up a palm.

  “Well, I do. Don’t be mad. There hasnae been an instant for me tae do anything other than stomp out the fire in front of me.”

  Lydia sat back, her long black fingernail tapping her black skirt as she considered everything Paislee had just said. “Fine,” she relented. “What do ye think’s going on?”

  Paislee gave her the rundown on Billy, who might have Isla’s mother’s number but wouldn’t call her back. Jealous Tabitha, who she knew had to have called Billy to warn him that she was on her way, and for good measure she tossed in her grandfather and Headmaster McCall. To top it off, she shared that Wallace had tried to eat Brody’s kite.

  Lydia slowly shook her head, her perfectly styled hair bobbed to showcase her pert nose and sculpted jawline. “I cannae believe it. Next time maybe text me after the Grandpa/ Brody showdown, and before hanging the socks?”

  Paislee chuckled. “I’ll do my best.”

  Lydia slid her glasses back on and continued toward their destination. “So . . . do you think the neighbor—what’s his name?”

  “Gerald Sanford.”

  “You think he was inside Isla’s flat, and that he left his dog behind after possibly killing Isla?”

  Paislee blew her bangs back and dug in her denim pocket for a hair tie, sweeping it up in a tail. “It sounds silly when you say it, but why on earth would Isla dog-sit? Her health issues made her leery of animals, even Wallace, who is a sweetie pie.”

  “What are you trying tae prove by going there? What if he did do it?” Her best friend sliced her finger across her throat.

  “Lydia!”

  “Sairy.”

  They followed the road toward the pier and the harbor apartments.

  “I just want some answers, that’s all. It doesnae make sense that she would move back tae Nairn alone—why wouldn’t she have called me sooner? I thought we were friends.”

  Lydia glanced at Paislee as she drove. “She was a user, Paislee. She liked you as long as ye were valuable tae her. Trust me—I know plenty of people like that in real estate. It’s why me sales are so high. I only take out the clients that I trust have the money tae follow through, and then I show them their dream house. Cha-ching—everybody’s happy, but it isnae a friendship, ye ken?”

  Paislee didn’t want to hear it. “That’s no way tae speak of the
dead.”

  “You had a blind spot for her.” Lydia made a right down the road and reached Harborside Flats. The large tree that shaded the building waved its branches in the slight wind from the harbor across the street, and the fishing pier. “This is the place? Brilliant!”

  Paislee let her annoyance on Isla’s behalf go as Lydia chose a spot in the lot next to Gerald. Despite the morning hour, he was washing his silver BMW, bare chested, music blaring.

  “Oooh la la,” Lydia said with appreciation. “Look at those hips. Please tell me this is the hot neighbor.”

  “That’s the hot neighbor.”

  “This will be fun.” She peered at Gerald over the top of her shades. “What do we want again?”

  “The truth about how well he knew Isla—and why he’d been in her apartment, and left his dog there. And, if he killed her.” The words sounded surreal.

  Lydia lifted the car’s visor to get a better view and switched off the engine. “Law school isn’t cheap,” she said. “Neither is that car. And those muscles are hard earned. I wonder what he does for his money?”

  “He’d mentioned working as an actor, doing reenactments, but I don’t know. I have the same question about Isla—how could she afford this place? What I paid her certainly wasnae going tae cover it.”

  “Roommate?”

  She recalled the mug in the sink, and the empty feel to the flat. “I don’t think so.”

  Gerald realized they were there and switched the music off with a bashful grin. Charming—but Paislee gave a wide berth to charming. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.

  “Hey!” His eyes locked on Lydia, who was the whole package at five ten, black fitted sleeveless blouse, black pencil skirt, and boots with stiletto heels. With her black bob and black nails, Paislee was reminded of a sexy Russian spy, though Lydia had been born and raised in Nairn.

  “Hiya,” Lydia answered with a sly smile.

  Gerald dropped his sponge into a bucket of soapy water. His skin was tan even below the waistband of his jeans, which were rolled up at the ankles, and his feet bare.

  “Hi, Gerald.” Paislee pulled his attention away from Lydia.

  “Hello.” He kept his friendly smile as he tried to place her. “Have we met?”